Jason Pinter - The Guilty

For uncertain reasons, tonight I felt I had to speak to Linda.

If anyone could understand what was happening, she could.

Mya was in the hospital. I had to cut Amanda from my life before she got hurt. I had nobody to turn to.

But this wasn't about me. Linda had her own life. She was still grieving over the loss of her brother.

I stood in front of the awning, debating whether to call on

Linda Fredrickson. The doorman sighed and walked over to me. He knew I didn't live there. His eyes were raised as if to say either come in, or get the hell out of here.

"May I ask who you're here to visit?" He wore a red uniform and a square hat with gold tassles. I could see several newspapers littering his tiny counter; the flicker on the glass told me he kept a small television set to pass the time.

"Nobody," I said. "Just walking around the neighborhood."

"All right then," he said, with a suspicious tone. He left me and went back inside, immediately picking up the newspaper. He raised the cover and for a moment I had a terrible sense of deja vu. On the cover was a police sketch of William

Henry Roberts. It looked both exactly like him and nothing like him. He was a young man. Like thousands of others in this city. Like me.

I wondered if the doorman had been paranoid, thought I could be the killer.

I hurried away.

The entire city was being combed for William Henry

Roberts. Yet as the noose tightened, the picture was becoming clearer. I knew Roberts thought he was the great-grandson of

Billy the Kid. I knew he'd killed his entire family. The problem was I had no proof. The proof had been reduced to ashes four years ago.

I begged Wallace to let me run the story, knowing full well my claims couldn't be fully supported by facts. They were unsubstantiated, and I offered to provide full disclaimers and

editorialize much more than usual. In the end Wallace nixed it. And rightly so. But that didn't mean I couldn't try to print it elsewhere. Or let someone else print it.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one number I swore I would never call again.

The phone rang and the operator picked up.

"This is the New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?"

"I'd like Paulina Cole's desk."

"One moment."

I held my breath, waited for the call to go through. Paulina screened her calls. One of the benefits of having worked beside her for a few months. Unsurprisingly it went to voice mail.

"This is Cole. Leave a message."

"Paulina, this is Henry Parker. Meet me at Ollie's diner in an hour. I have a story for you. No tricks, just business."

I hung up and began walking toward the diner.

I was in the middle of chewing a ham-and-cheese sandwich when Paulina burst through the door. I'd been inside just ten minutes, but decided to order without waiting. This wasn't a date.

Paulina's hair was disheveled, her makeup ready to cascade down her face at any moment, and her purse clung to her shoulder by one overworked strap. She perused the diner until she saw me. Then she took an enormous deep breath and came over. I leaned across the table and pushed the seat out for her. I was nothing if not a gentleman.

"Henry," she said, placing her bag on the floor, then thinking better of it and hanging it over the chair back. "It's been a long time, we need to do this more often."

"We need to do this once and only once," I said. She cocked her head like I was speaking ancient Sumerian.

"That's not how I feel," she said. A waiter came by and handed her a menu. He began to walk away, but she snapped her fingers and he turned around. "I'll have a bagel and cream cheese, with the bagel scooped out and light cream cheese. I also want capers, but not too many. And a glass of pineapple juice." The waiter nodded and left.

"So how's the Dispatch treating you?" I asked, taking a swig of coffee.

"Oh, you know. Always busy, always hustling." She made a running motion with her hands to denote that she did, literally, hustle. "Listen, Henry," she said, leaning forward slightly. She was wearing a tight black sweater with a V-neck that exposed the top of her remarkably perky breasts. I wondered if she had them done. Then I decided I'd done enough thinking about her breasts for the rest of my life. "I know things haven't been great between us. But I'd like to make amends."

"I'm sure you lose tons of sleep over it," I replied, "but everything I say today is off the record."

"You can't be serious." I pulled a tape recorder out of my bag, held it up for her to see. "Let me guess. You got that 'off the record' bit on tape."

"Just making sure my off the record is on the record."

Paulina laughed. The waiter arrived with a glass of pineapple juice, pulpy and thick. Paulina took a small sip, then pointed a long fingernail at me.

"You know, I always thought Wallace was smart to bring you onboard at the Gazette. That place is an old man's club.

And old men don't get younger-they die. And if nobody is there to take over when they finally kick the bucket, the paper will die, too. It was smart of him to inject some new blood."

"You've spilled enough ink calling for my blood this year,

I didn't think you cared so much."

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "This is business, honey. You sell newspapers. Cute, young guy like you.

Remember that actor from The Sopranos, supposedly killed a cop? Every day his mug was on the front page we couldn't print enough papers. Half the people that buy our rags don't

read them, sweetie, they look at the headlines and the pictures and move on to pictures of Paris Hilton in a bikini. The least we can do is give them something to hold their interest."

"Like Mya and David Loverne."

Paulina shrank back. I could tell I'd struck a nerve. It felt good, but I couldn't dig too deep. I was here for a reason.

"You know I never wanted to see either of them hurt." She meant it. "Mya is a lost soul. People like reading about lost souls, and they like to have someone to blame for it. You and

Get-Around-Town Loverne were easy marks. But you're not so innocent yourself. I checked the hospital records. She was admitted with those facial wounds. You really did hang up on her when she called you. Your own girlfriend, lying beaten on the street, and you turn the ringer off. Brave man."

"Keep punching, if it makes you feel better. I've lived with it for a year and a half and I'll never forgive myself. But I wasn't the one who hit her. And I've learned to live with the rest of it."

"You say potato, I say poh-tahto. So here's the deal,"

Paulina said, ignoring the waiter as he brought over her bagel.

"You don't like me. That's fine. I have a man who makes me come twice a night so I don't need more friends. But you called me, Mr. Parker. So why am I here?"

"Because I've got a story for you," I said.

Paulina eyed me while she smeared cream cheese into the crater where the bagel had been dug out. "You've got a story for me? I hope it doesn't end with you squeezing sour grapes, because that's a boring story and you're the only schmuck who wants to read it."

"It's not sour grapes," I said. "Those are there, don't get me wrong, but that's not why I called you. I have another story.

A better story. A story that will help you beat the Gazette tomorrow if you have time to make it into the national edition."

"I'm sorry, did Ted Allen put you on the payroll without telling me?" Paulina asked. She took a bite of her bagel, washed it down with pineapple juice. That combination couldn't taste good.

"I have a once-in-a-lifetime lead. But Wallace won't let me run with it. He said it'd stir up a ton of controversy and he doesn't need more of that from me right now. He wants me to lay low."